The Opposite of Denouncements
by osmalic
Summary: Mr. Simmons had known Helga was an exceptional writer and she had always seemed passionate about everything, whether it was writing or beating people.


**objective:** Get the word for the day in write a fic for 30 minutes.  
**time:** 32 minutes  
**edit:** I edited it partly, then stopped because I realized if I went any further I'll be rewriting the whole thing.

Word of the Day for Wednesday October 26, 2005  
virago vuh-RAH-go; vuh-RAY-go, noun:  
**1.** A woman of extraordinary stature, strength, and courage.  
**2.** A woman regarded as loud, scolding, ill-tempered, quarrelsome, or overbearing.

**The Opposite of Denouncements  
**

Mr. Simmons had not expected her to refuse; he had known she was an exceptional writer and she had always seemed passionate about everything, whether it was writing or beating people, yet there she was sitting across him with her arms crossed and looking defensive as she always did whenever he asked her to stay after class.

"No?" he repeated incredulously. "Surely you'd like to think about it first? Won't your parents be pleased?"

Helga Patacki stared at him like he'd lost his mind. "My _parents_?" she asked, then laughed a sharp bark of laughter. "They'll flip their lid! Anyway, _I_ don't want to, and that's what counts, isn't it?"

The teacher scratched his head and sighed. "But this is a once in a—"

"—lifetime opportunity, yeah, yeah," she repeated, waving her hand airily. "Look, Teacher Man, I don't care. I don't want to get transferred."

"But this school can offer you several opportunities," he protested. It made him incredibly sad to see this fourth grade girl with so many bright potentials refuse an offer so flatly, and it made him sadder to see how her eyes darted to the window every so often. "The board was greatly impressed with your works."

"And you showed them my works!" Helga burst out suddenly, glaring at him. "You—they were sent by 'Anonymous'! Do you even know what 'anonymous' means!"

"Those were exceptional work for a child of nine," Mr. Simmons pointed out, ignoring her outburst. "This scholarship will get you into writing camps, let you dig deeper into your talent, and find other inspirations that this school simply cannot offer you."

Helga crossed her arms against her chest again. Her eyes were straying to the window and she was scowling at her classmates' motions on the school yard. From her vantage point, Mr. Simmons could see Phoebe sitting with Sheena and Lila, sharing ice-cream and patiently waiting for her friend to come out. Gerald and Arnold were on the monkey bars, shouting at Harold and Stinky.

"It's in your blood," he told her quietly. "Your sister—"

"My sister has nothing to do with what I can or cannot do!" she shouted so suddenly that Mr. Simmons had to draw back. Helga would not meet his eyes but he could see the way her reddened face and he could imagine the clenched fists at her side. "My blood is mine!"

"That passion of yours," Mr. Simmons tried again, "is what can make you an exceptional writer."

"But it has nothing to do with _blood_," Helga sneered.

There was silence in the room, permeated only by the muffled sounds of children playing outside. Mr. Simmons wondered how this child could possibly be Olga's sister. He had had Olga Patacki as a student before and she had been equally passionate about her beliefs and ideals; Helga was passionate about getting her fist into someone's face. Mr. Simmons was not blind, he may have ignored some negative qualities that his students had but he knew Helga Patacki's tendency to become violent. He knew about her zeal and intelligence that she hid behind her scowl and shouts.

Yet Mr. Simmons also knew she could be capable of greater things, things he could not offer. His dream had always been to be a teacher, to help shape knowledge and give children the chance to find their way. Helga Patacki was brilliant and it would sadden him to let her leave but he could not give her the knowledge that she may need to become exceptional. It may suffocate her.

Finally, he said, "Helga, I'm not saying that you should decide now. I understand it will be hard for you, and I know it will be difficult if you decide to continue your education there."

Helga's scowl deepened. Mr. Simmons cleared his throat. _I should remember,_ he thought, _that she is not an ordinary fourth grader._ She was an exceptional student, a most unique figure in a class made up of individuals special in their own way, but also different. She stood out, she burned, she shone, she fought, and she either highly succeeded or greatly perished. She was a virago in every sense of the word and she knew it. He knew it.

Mr. Simmons wished he could keep her in his class, if only to see how she would flare. He squashed this thought.

"If you decide to take this scholarship," he continued firmly, "I will applaud it. But it is up to you."

Helga was silent for a while and her eyes again darted to the window. Phoebe was making notes in her clipboard and Arnold and Gerald had sat down beside her, talking. Someone was screaming about the inhumane rules of hopscotch.

"I'll think about it more, Mr. Simmons," she replied quietly yet also sharply. "I...I'm grateful that you hold me in high regards." It seemed painful for her to make a simple apology and it fell unnaturally from her lips. He marveled at her words. "But...it's not just leaving and the idea of leaving, and it's not just my sister, or my friends, or this, but..."

She looked across him, in the small classroom devoid of students, and it seemed like the universe between them disappeared in an instant. She was still frowning. "I'll probably kick myself in the future but what makes me who I am is here. Every single verse, line, word, emotion, every single one of those poems and stories I wrote has a reason, and each of the reasons are currently here."

Something crashed outside faintly. They were not distracted. Helga shrugged. "I'm not saying that scholarship doesn't scare me. It does. I'm afraid I may not be good enough, they made a mistake, or something...I don't know. My parents won't ever believe it, anyway. I'm not—" And she stopped, pressing her lips together angrily before continuing, "I'll think about it, I promise. But greatness doesn't have to come from one place. I'm...this school has given itself greatness. If you think I'm great, then it's because of you. And everyone else." Her voice sounded embarrassed and the last line trailed off. She would not meet his eyes.

It was almost painful to see her repressing the need to shuffle her shoes. _After everything,_ he thought to himself, _she is still a fourth grade student._ Helga seemed to be waiting for his response, impatiently tapping her foot on the ground. Mr. Simmons nodded and smiled. _And I am her teacher._ "All right." He handed her the stack of papers, repressed the need to rumple her hair, and grinned at her ferocious scowl. "No one will think any less of you if you refuse."

"They shouldn't," she sulked, and she left to enjoy the rest of the recess period.

Glancing out the window as Helga Patacki shoved her way through the crowd of fourth-graders, Mr. Simmons thought that for a child, Helga Patacki had great courage to focus on what she wanted rather than what was expected of her.

As her teacher, he felt his heart swell with pride.

After a while, he turned to the board and began to write:

_"What makes it serious  
is that we know  
that after the order  
of this world  
there is another._

_What is it like?_

_We do not know."_

- Antonin Artaud, "The Question Arises" (1947)

**notes:  
**Helga doesn't sound like a fourth-grader, but I'm trying to show her genius warring with her bad-girl persona. In the show, I'm quite sure Mr. Simmons doesn't know that the poems he get written by 'Anonymous' was written by Helga, but what if...? Artaud's writings isn't about courage as much as it questions beliefs on existence, but I thought that to answer that big question, one must have the courage to know yourself, right? (I could be wrong, though.)

**ETA: (around a month after posted)**  
I wrote this fic some time ago and only had the chance to edit it now. I'm sorry for taking such a long time. I wanted to add some thanks to the reviewers, especially those who pointed out that, yes, Mr Simmons _does_ know who wrote those poems; a bigger shout-out to Lord Malachite for pointing out that Mr Simmons did _not_ have Olga in his class, he just had her as his student teacher. In writing this fic, I actually thought about that, but being under the time pressure forced me to gloss over the fact and, as I mentioned, I didn't go on editing the story for fear of reworking the entire fic. I'm keeping up this imperfect version as a rueful reminder on my idiocy. However, **thank you** for reading, commenting, reviewing, and criticising my work. I am very grateful and would love to hear more from you. Thank you very much!


End file.
